


You Knew What It Was

by Rinbin



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Fic, Friends to Lovers, I KNOW I HATE MYSELF FOR IT TOO, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oh you know what I guess this counts as a, Slow Burn, Songfic, Valentine’s Day, blah blah blah you know the drill, but only because i posted it today lmao, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 20:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13688880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinbin/pseuds/Rinbin
Summary: It is a Monday and he’s...not alone, actually. He turns and sees someone step out from the shadow of a storefront: a boy, around his age, with a mess of dark hair that seems to frizzle when the rain touches it. His glasses are dotted with rain drops and his eyes are dark but kind. He looks cool—not cool like a reputation, no, cool like a temperature. Looking at this guy feels like those ice baths he used to get back when he was on the track team: startling and soothing at once. He smiles, shyly, when Ryuji’s eyes meet his.





	You Knew What It Was

**Author's Note:**

> This is my sixteen page fever dream SOS
> 
> me: i don't even like taylor swift  
> also me: *writes two tswift song fics*

It is a Monday. It is a Monday and it’s raining. It is a Monday and it’s raining and he sees her getting into his car and driving away and he’s so angry he’s burning up all over again. He’s practically on fire, the rain can’t douse him now, and there’s lava in the form of words spilling out of his mouth as he raises a helpless fist and runs after the car like he could change anything. There is a particular burn right above his knee that reminds him he can’t, what could happen if he tried again. It is a Monday and it’s raining and he feels shockingly, consumingly alone.

_One look, dark room_  
_Meant just for you_  
_Time moved too fast  
_ _You play it back_

It is a Monday and he’s...not alone, actually. He turns and sees someone step out from the shadow of a storefront: a boy, around his age, with a mess of dark hair that seems to frizzle when the rain touches it. His glasses are dotted with rain drops and his eyes are dark but kind. He looks cool—not cool like a reputation, no, cool like a temperature. Looking at this guy feels like those ice baths he used to get back when he was on the track team: startling and soothing at once. He smiles, shyly, when Ryuji’s eyes meet his. Ryuji has half a mind to be embarrassed at his display of fiery temper but truthfully he doesn’t much care. Chances are this kid already knows about Ryuji: The Vulgar Boy, the Troublemaker, the Kid Only A Mother Could Love.

There is a moment, though, a very brief but perplexing moment, where Ryuji’s eyes meet his and everything seems to...quiet. For a second the sound of the city disappears, for a second Ryuji doesn’t feel quite so burned up, for a second it doesn’t even feel like it’s raining. For a second there is just the boy and Ryuji, staring at each other across the sidewalk on a Monday morning.

_Buttons on a coat_  
_Lighthearted joke_  
_No proof, not much  
_ _But you saw enough_

Akira finds himself at a loss for words when he stands before him. He’s not sure what pushed him out from his safe, dry place under the awning. He’s not sure why he felt a sudden panic at the idea this loud, blond boy would walk away without him. He can’t figure out why he feels compelled to approach him, why he can’t stop staring into those wide brown eyes, the brow that furrows when he still hasn’t looked away.

“You go to Shujin?” is the question. The words break through the cloudiness in Akira’s head and he glances down at his uniform. This was the correct one, no? He couldn’t afford a slip-up like this on the first day of school.

“Stupid question, I guess,” is the answer given to itself with a smile. The smile utterly destroys any remaining cloudiness, replacing all dreaded thoughts of rainy Monday mornings and first days of school. Akira realizes he hasn’t spoken, just been staring at the boy for a solid few minutes now. He clears his throat.

“No such thing,” he says, and then frowns because it sounds like something an adult would say and not quite as conversational as he intended. He looks over the boy’s own outfit, which is reminiscent of the uniform Akira wears but different enough to cause hesitation. He wants to ask but can’t seem to figure out how.

“What year’re you?” is another question. Should be easy enough to answer but he’s transferring in the middle of the year and honestly the past six months had been such an insane whirlwind that he has to think about it. The boy waits patiently, surprisingly Akira. He hadn’t taken him for a patient sort of person.

“Year two,” is the answer that comes after a moment. He looks at the boy’s t-shirt and squints, searching for the pin that should be there. It’d be awfully embarrassing if he were talking to a Year Three like this.The boy notices and glances down.

“Oh, shit,” he says under his breath, “Forgot it again.”

“But you clearly care for the uniform with such painstaking attention. I’m surprised,” deadpans Akira. It comes quickly, too quickly, the jest in his voice clear but too casual for a stranger. He doesn’t even know this other boy’s name. He chastises himself: he can’t be like that, not here in this city of his “reformation.” He meant to stick to the shadows. He meant to blend in, stuff this year of solitude into his back pocket and truck forward with his head down. Yet here he is, walking into the rain and making jokes like he’s amongst friends.

There’s too long a moment where Akira thinks he might have to tell the boy he’s joking, but then the boy laughs. And _oh,_ he laughs with his whole body, head thrown back and body leaning away and arms wrapping around his belly and eyes squinting shut and the noise that erupts is more jovial than expected—more jovial than _earned_ by his dumb quip—and he goddamn near falls in love right there.

 

_Small talk, he drives_  
_Coffee at midnight_  
_The light reflects  
_ _The chain on your neck_

“Try it,” Akira urges, pushing the coffee cup towards Ryuji.

“No,” he says, mouth set in a straight line, eyes twinkling at this game they play. The cafe is quiet—of course, here in the middle of the night—lights dimmed and low like Sojiro prefers (for that “ambiance,” he says each morning). Ryuji’s never slept over before, but his mom has to work through the night and she didn’t want Ryuji staying home alone. Akira’s all too happy to indulge himself in Ryuji’s presence, and Ryuji could never say no to more time with Akira. The more friends they make, the less time Akira has for just Ryuji. He finds himself selfishly wishing for those early days, back when they didn’t know anything and had to discover it together, back when Ryuji was all that Akira had. This late hour in the cafe, Ryuji can almost convince himself of such, can almost feel like they’re the only ones here on earth.

It is months after they met and there is something brewing besides coffee. There is something brewing here that neither can recognize just yet—they don’t know what to name it, don’t feel like they need to name it anything, but it’s just as there and just as new and just as warm as this cup of coffee sitting before Ryuji. It’s the new fire Ryuji’s come to recognize, the different warmth than the one that burned all his insides and charred his soul. This is the warmth that Akira can bring, the coolness that settles the coals into a steam. He is both ice and lava, both sunshine and shadow, the reprieve and the sentencing.

“I made it different this time,” Akira qualifies. He nudges it again. The smile plays at his lips, twitching just behind. The lights are low and it’s the middle of the night but somehow Ryuji finds a way to shine. He practically glows here, in this deserted cafe, a beacon for the wounded and weary. It’s no wonder Akira was drawn to him, pulled from under that storefront, like a moth to a flame. Ryuji’s very being called you in, gathering you in its arms, promising to protect you with the kind of fierce loyalty that you’re supposed to earn—except he never made you earn it, just gave it for free.

“Ain’t it too late for coffee?” Ryuji asks, knowing he’ll give in. There’s too much hope in Akira’s eyes; it makes him powerless. He’d do anything for Akira, no matter how impossible, including drinking coffee.

“Never too late for coffee,” Akira says, then: “Please?” He pouts. “For me?”

Ryuji’d do anything for Akira, including drinking coffee, so he takes the cup and lifts it to his lips. Admittedly the scent draws him in: it smells like Akira, a bit sharp like spices but a bit soothing like a Sunday morning. When the liquid slides easily, tastefully, deliciously down his throat, he wants to be angry. How did he do it? How did this mysterious, wonderful stranger make everything Ryuji’s ever hated feel like home?

Ryuji didn’t like coffee...unless it was from Akira. Ryuji didn’t like reading...unless it was next to Akira. Ryuji didn’t like studying...unless it was with Akira. Ryuji didn’t like museums...unless he was going with Akira. What secret magic did Akira have that turned everything he touched into gold? Where did he come from?

“It’s...alright,” Ryuji offers with a shrug. Akira chuckles to himself and leans over the bar, punching Ryuji lightly in the shoulder. Ryuji breaks into a grin.

“Like hell,” Akira says with a laugh, “You liked it, admit it.”

Ryuji still can’t decide if that smarmy look on Akira’s face is charming or annoying, but is willing to admit that it’s probably both. The ultimate enigma, capable of being both sides of the coin—yet another fact about Akira that made him seem otherworldly.

“Okay, okay,” Ryuji says, hands up in surrender, “It was good. What’s in this one?”

“ _Love_ ,” Akira coos, winking as he cleans up the coffee pot. Akira finds the comment coming easily, too easily, yet again. He can’t be like that: too obvious, unabashed, when it comes to Ryuji. He reminds himself how difficult it is to be bare and open, how much it hurt him in the past, and swallows.

Ryuji rolls his eyes and opens his mouth for a comeback, but finds his tongue feeling heavy and dry. His cheeks feel hot and his body feels like he’s climbing into that ice bath again, jarred and alert. _Love_ is the answer. It’s a joke, another classic Akira jest, but it’s a violent one that has Ryuji feeling like they just exchanged blows. Akira, met with silence unaccustomed from Ryuji, turns to look at him with a furrowed brow.

When their eyes meet over that warm cup of coffee as the clock strikes 12:30, for a second there is just a boy and Ryuji staring at each other across the cafe bar, silence as wide as the night sky.

_He says look up_  
_And your shoulders brush_  
_No proof, one touch  
_ _You felt enough_

Group outings were always a bit of a clusterfuck. This band of thieves, an island of misfits, could only have their shit together for so long. Hard as Makoto tried, there was really only so much you could do before Futaba found something about Yusuke to complain about. This, of course, would set Yusuke off, which would cause Haru to try to quell the situation. As loving as her attempt was, inevitably her inability to calm the two would cause her to get frustrated, which would then add water onto the grease fire. Ann would attempt to step in, but really she just wanted them to be quiet, and Futaba saw through that easily enough that she’d find something about Ann to insult. This brought Morgana into the situation, who defended Ann so fiercely that he’d often forget they were in public, and Makoto would have to try to talk over the noise to try to disguise the fact that Yusuke was getting in Morgana’s face and talking to him like he were a person.

On any other day, Akira could probably get them all to calm down with a pointed look. On any other day, Ryuji would’ve been in the argument ages ago, just for the sake of getting riled up about something. On any other day this could be going a bit smoother, but it was the end of summer and the temperature was still so high and the train was so crowded that everyone was dealing with shorter-than-usual tempers. Akira couldn’t bring himself to muster enough energy to even try to help.

“Like children,” Akira says under his breath, leaning towards Ryuji on the train. They (thankfully) had to split up a bit in order to all fit, leaving Akira and Ryuji closer to the back. They could just see the others through the crowd.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Ryuji agrees with a huff. “How we get anythin’ done is beyond me.”

Half an hour later the group dutifully climbs the steps from the underground, feet heavy and already exhausted despite just arriving. The end of the summer festival was as good an occasion for a group hang as any, and even though they all enjoyed spending time with each other, it was no secret that everyone’s favorite was Akira. Ryuji catches a desperate look sent his way as Akira is dragged off, destined to spend little pieces of time individually with each friend, but Ryuji can’t bring himself to feel sympathetic.

Instead a familiar white-hot feeling flares in his veins: it’s like the old anger, he knows, which sends his stomach for a sickening flip. This yearning he had for the days when it was he and Akira was getting out of hand—these were his friends, his family, and yet he couldn’t help the spite that reared like a woken monster when Makoto slid her arm into Akira’s.  Ryuji couldn’t help the gritted teeth and fists stuffed in pockets as he tried to busy himself at the carnival, tried to find anything that was even half as captivating as Akira. He couldn’t help how he kept noticing that he was following Akira, and whichever friend he was with at the time, like he was tethered to his energy. Ryuji couldn’t help the angry way he pointedly ignored Ann’s cheer as Akira won her a stuffed teddy bear at a carnival game. He couldn’t help that as time went on, as the evening bled into night, as the rose-orange sky faded to a dark purple, he was the friend left empty handed.

The bitterness that filled him wasn’t fair, he knew it wasn’t fair at all—after all, who could he blame? Akira, for being Akira? Himself, for being enraptured by it? His friends for the very same reason? Ryuji leans over a railing, staring down at the pond below, and shakes his head. Where had this come from? And how could he get it to go away?

“Hey,” Ryuji hears from his side, and the bitterness evaporates faster than water on a hot surface. A shoulder nudges into his. It feels a bit like puzzle pieces slotting into place, like a whisper of _finally_.

“Hey yourself,” he replies, turning to look at a very-tired looking Akira. “Eventful evening?” he asks.

Akira nods, exhausted. “Anything in particular you want to do?” he offers. It’s two parts sweet for its intentionality, for the fact that it ignores how often he must’ve asked this question already, for how it extends itself like an open blank page for Ryuji to write upon. It’s also one part frustrating, like being fed scraps from a table Ryuji helped create.

“I’m last this time, eh?” There’s a bit of a bite in Ryuji’s voice, one Akira doesn’t deserve, and Ryuji realizes perhaps the bitterness isn’t wholly gone.

“C’mon,” Akira says softly, nudging Ryuji once more—no, leaning. Ryuji’s heels press into the concrete as Akira puts more and more weight into his lean until Ryuji feels like he’s practically holding him up. Akira’s too tired to fight, too exhausted to explain that Ryuji is last because Ryuji is a breath of air. Ryuji came last because Ryuji would be exactly what Akira needed: a rest, an escape, a chance to catch his breath. He allows himself to lean fully into Ryuji and isn’t surprised in the least when Ryuji doesn’t seem to have trouble supporting his weight.

“Sorry,” Ryuji apologizes, “I just...s’weird. Feels like I’m waitin’ in line.” He rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck.

“Saved the best for last?” Akira tries. He looks at Ryuji from over his glasses, his eyes so open and kind, and whatever ammo Ryuji so wrongly thought he had in his arsenal dissipates. He grunts and gently pushes Akira back into a standing position, suddenly flushed.

“Honestly at this point I’m not sure I wanna do anything,” Ryuji says, returning to the original question, “And I’m sure you’ve kinda done everything.” He turns himself so he’s leaning back on the railing now, elbows propped up, his stance casual. He might look like he was trying to be cool to a passing stranger, but Akira catches the way he gingerly lifts his right leg and knows Ryuji’s spent maybe too much time on his feet today. He curses himself for not considering this sooner; some best friend.

Akira mirrors Ryuji’s body language, pressing his back into the cool railing. Night fell quickly once it started, and even though the city lights are inescapable, he can still make out a few stars. To his right he hears Ryuji sigh and turns in time to see him put his phone back into his pocket.

“Makoto wants to meet at the center tent,” he informs, “Says the fireworks’ll start soon.”

Ryuji makes a move to stand up and start walking, but Akira reaches and lays his hand over Ryuji’s. Stunned at the sudden contact, wide eyes meet Akira’s as his flutter closed.

“Not yet,” he says almost sleepily. He doesn’t make any attempt to move his hand, either, which confuses and enthralls Ryuji. “It’s still our time to be alone together.”

Minutes later, when the fireworks have started, Ryuji whispers to Akira. His eyes slowly open and above him the sky rains in color, brilliant whites and blues and greens, all while his hand lays lazily atop Ryuji’s. It rains down over them, showering them in technicolor, and Akira finds that watching Ryuji lit in this spectrum is more captivating than the show itself. The colors dazzle across his summer-tanned skin, his eyes turned upward. Akira’s eyes fall to their hands: neither has moved, a contact so subtle—is Ryuji as aware as he is? The skin there burns with laser focus.

 

_Morning, his place_  
_Burnt toast, Sunday_  
_You keep his shirt  
_ _He keeps his word_

Akira’s cleaning his room on a Thursday afternoon, rifling through a pile of clothes he’s left on the floor. How did he procure so much black? Then, a shock of color catches his eye. Perplexed he pulls it from the bottom, a bright green t-shirt, and he sits back on his heels, smiling.

Ryuji’s shirt, of course, how could he have forgotten? He lifts it to his face and inhales, a clean scent like fresh cut grass and soap bringing the memory back full throttle.

_I forgot a shirt._  
_You forgot a shirt?_  
_I forgot a shirt.  
_ _You dork. Ain’t you supposed to be the smart one? Here, you can borrow one of mine. Unless you sleep shirtless._

The blush on Ryuji’s cheeks as he said the last sentence. The flip of his own stomach, wondering if Ryuji would let him sleep in his queen sized bed instead of sleeping out on the couch, hoping that he would and yet hoping that he wouldn’t. Here, at Ryuji’s apartment, staying over simply because Ryuji asked, feeling the way it ebbs and flows between them like the hopeful ocean. It is a weekend and it’s raining, the soft pelting of the drops on the panes, and Akira is filled with so much _stuff_ that he can’t make heads or tails of anything. The one thing—the only thing—keeping him grounded is the pink tips of Ryuji’s ears, the realization that maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing Akira shirtless, and his stomach does a cartwheel.

Akira could do it, just to watch Ryuji squirm, but he’d miss the chance to wear something of his. And there was something like ownership in wearing the other’s clothes, something that felt stronger and sweeter than teasing it out of Ryuji. So he agrees, says he’d like one, and Ryuji hides his face by turning away.

Akira feels so full now. He feels swollen and fat, like a pin will burst him, and out will come everything he’s held back all this time. He’s better at keeping it in now, better than he was in those first days, but now he finds himself wishing for that unashamed release. If only he could be like Ryuji, who said how he felt without even realizing what he was saying, who offered his heart on his sleeve before checking it over and carefully hiding the things he didn’t want anyone to see. Ryuji’s searching his closet for “the right shirt” and Akira doesn’t know what that means but it’s soft and it’s sweet and it’s so very Ryuji that he’s going to explode, he’s really going to explode, but then Ryuji holds out this ridiculous bright green t-shirt and he’s got a toothy grin and Akira manages to keep it together.

 _This is_ so _you._

It was aggressively not him. He adorns it anyway, soft cotton fabric sliding over his body. It’s too big, collar so wide that his shoulder peaks out, so long it lands just above his knees.

_I look ridiculous.  
_ _Nah, y’look cute. Fearless leader swallowed whole by a damn Destinyland t-shirt. Hold still. Where's my phone?_

Here, today, Akira laughs aloud remembering how he lunged atRyuji, tackling him back onto the bed, hands desperate to take his phone away, hands desperate to touch anything besides the phone, hands desperate. Here, today, Akira falls suddenly silent as he recalls the missed opportunity, all the missed opportunities. How the air had stilled, the rain still falling, when Akira plucked the phone from his hands and looked down at a very soft, wonderous Ryuji. How long those seconds took to pass, how quickly his thoughts flew through his mind: _kiss him, kiss him, kiss him_ —and then the moment was gone, Ryuji softly pushing his exposed shoulder away, Akira untangling himself and falling to the side.

Here, today, Akira sighs and inhales the scent of the shirt once again. He remembers settling into the sheets later that night, a good distance away from Ryuji, feeling very close and very far. The rain fell steady outside.

_You can keep it. Tomorrow, I mean, when you go home. You can keep the shirt._  
_No, that’s okay, it’s your shirt._  
_N-no...I, uh, I want you to. Somethin’ to remember me by, I guess, when you gotta go back home._  
_Oh…….do you want something to remember me by?  
_ _Nah dude, don’t need it. Couldn’t forget you if I tried._

 

 

_And for once you let go_  
_Of your fears and your ghosts_  
_One step, not much  
_ _But it said enough_

Akira didn’t like to be bare. After all this time he was still uncomfortable with the idea of being open, splayed out, raw. He resisted it like an animal being yanked from the comforts of its home, nails digging into the ground, throwing his weight back and pulling back on the leash. There was too much vulnerability, too much risk for too fickle of a reward.

And then the reward was Ryuji, and his perspective changed.

It took time, a lot of time, but Ryuji was patient. He knew he was a little too forthcoming, a little too obvious, a little too “here I am, hurt me.” His father called him a wuss for it; his mother called him a lover. He thought lover was reserved for sexual relationships, was confused by this moniker for years, but when he meets Akira a part of him understands. The rest of him comes to understand as the weeks pass, as he names his bitterness jealousy, as he covets Akira’s presence in everything he does. A lover. He strips himself bare and hands Akira the knife so easily. He is too willing, too trusting, but not for a second does he doubt.

And so, gradually, Akira comes to do the same. He cuts his armor into ribbons and pulls them off slowly. He fashions a knife in a white hot flame called _Love_ and spends months crafting it, drawing in details, careful and timid. And finally, after so long, he has no more armor. Littered around his feet are his ribbons, his carefully constructed image, his strong-silent type, his nonchalance, his sarcasm. 

Akira didn’t like to be bare, to be so emotionally naked, but Ryuji is the only one watching. He hands Ryuji the knife and closes his eyes—the pain never comes.

_You kiss on sidewalks  
_ _You fight and you talk_

Fighting was never on the to-do list. Fighting wasn’t something best friends did, did they? It didn’t feel right, that was for sure. Normally they gave up when the barbs came out, preferring to forgive and forget before anything got started, so how did they get here?

Akira’s silence was deafening. It was a roar so loud in Ryuji’s ear that he couldn’t concentrate at school. Akira wielded silence like a weapon, his fighting style precise and intentional. Ryuji couldn’t even use their other friends as vehicles; Akira shut down anytime someone asked. He had chewed his tongue and swallowed it, and Ryuji felt desperate in the quiet.

Ryuji’s frustration burned. He spoke without thinking, words like an uncontrollable fire that took down the entire forest that was Akira. He didn’t mean any of it—at least, Akira hoped—but that didn’t stop it from hurting. Any time he overheard Ryuji’s loud voice carrying down the hall, hopelessly ranting to an understanding Ann, he swallowed whatever words he had come to say.

What was it even about? Ryuji could barely remember. Akira remembered better: it was dumb, about a tactic in Mementos, who should go on what mission. Ryuji wanted on the team, didn’t want to wait by Morgana, but Akira told him to stay put. He’d been on a mission too long the day before and Akira could already see the way Ryuji was favoring his right leg—he couldn’t risk Ryuji getting hurt. Ryuji insisted, getting angrier by the second: someone needed to protect Akira, and no one would risk themselves like Ryuji would. He didn’t trust Haru to jump in front of a Shadow’s death blow, didn’t blame her for not doing so, but _someone_ who would needed to be there.

They were fighting because they cared for each other; this the rest of the team knew. They tried telling them it was pointless, it had gone on too long, it was hurting the team, it was hurting them. One day there’s pushing and shoving and the door to a safe room opens and locks, the rest of the team outside.

Ryuji speaks first. “Why wouldn’t you let me go?” His voice is too soft for how he’s been speaking as of late. Akira realizes this hurts more.

“Because,” he sighs, “You were hurt.”

There’s more silence as Ryuji thinks this over. It sounds like bullshit to him—since when has his old injury ever caused pause? Even in Kamoshida’s palace, when he fell, Akira hadn’t stopped running. What was different now?

“I’m always hurt,” Ryuji says. They’re not facing each other, on opposite sides of the room, facing the wall. It’s childish, but for now they feel like children. Looking at him would hurt too much; Ryuji’s been thankful they were in different classes. “Never stopped ya before.”

“This was...different.”

It still sounds like bullshit. Ryuji says as much.

“No, it’s not-“ Akira sounds frustrated, which Ryuji doesn’t hear very often. He turns his head, still not turning around, but enough to show he’s listening. “It’s not-ugh. It’s not that you were already hurt, it’s that you were going to get hurt _more._ I know we have Morgana, and Ann, and bandages, and medicine, but I just...do you know how often you take the bullet, a _literal_ bullet, for me?”

Ryuji shrugs, then remembers Akira’s probably not looking at him either. “Dunno.” It doesn’t matter, not to Ryuji, when he’s made it out fine every time. All he can think about right now is the dread in his stomach when he sees the Shadow take aim and how his feet move before he tells them to. It’s automatic. It shouldn’t matter.

“T _oo often.”_

“Someone has to. You think the Phantom Thieves could be anything without you? We lose you, we lose everything. We lose me...well, what do we lose then?”

There’s a frank simplicity in Ryuji’s voice that makes Akira’s stomach sick.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t want to take you.”

“Oh, so you’re okay with someone else doin’ it?”

Ryuji’s blood feels hot. Akira’s breathing is getting heavier. The tension could choke them if it tried.

“No, not that part-“

“It’s fine if someone _else_ effin’ dies for you but god forbid _Ryuji’s_ there to help protect-“

“No, I don’t want any of you doing that, but it’s-“

“For the record I don’t think they woulda done it anyway, feel like I’m the only one willing to som-“

“You shouldn’t _be_ willing to is my point, Ry-“

“But so what if I am?!”

Ryuji whirls around, throwing his hands into the air, striding across the room towards Akira. He senses this and turns, facing Ryuji, face contorted in frustration.

“So what if I am?” Ryuji repeats. “You think you’re not worth _dyin’_ for, man, is that it?”

Akira looks sideways and huffs, throwing his hand out to the side, “ _No_ body should be dying for _any_ body, least of all you, when-“

“Oh am I not _good_ enough then, is that what you mean?” Ryuji spits.

“ _What_ ?” Akira exclaims, bringing his hands to his his head and running his fingers through his hair, “What are you _talking_ ab _-“_

“You said-“

“This isn’t about _good enough_ Ryuji, you goddamn moron-“

“Oh _thanks-“_

“It’s that I-“

“Apparenly don’t want me on the team-“

“Would you just slow down-“

“Well _fuck you too_ , then, Akira-“

Akira laughs and it sounds hollow. “Nice, real nice-“

“Used to be your right hand man now I’m not even allowed in the fight-“

Their faces are red and they keep stepping closer, closer and closer, and the tension is so thick between them that it’s almost like their bodies are separated by an invisible wall. There are tears pricking in Ryuji’s eyes because he’s never been good at keeping his emotions in and Akira’s slate eyes look like hurricanes and his fists are clenching at his sides and Ryuji’s hands are thrown about wildly and there’s that voice in Akira’s head going: _kiss him, kiss him, kiss him_ and it’s not right, this isn’t the right time, he’s too angry at Ryuji for not taking a fucking second to _breathe_ and the pot is bubbling over and the storm is raining down and there’s so much they still haven’t said but it’s going _kiss him, kiss him, kiss him,_ and does he want this? Does Ryuji want this? He can’t possibly want this, his eyes look like fire and god, he looks like he _hates_ Akira, if that voice would just shut up he could focus and get Ryuji to stop yelling and he could stop himself from yelling and the teapot is whistling, the alarms are ringing, _time is up_ the walls are screaming—

And then Ryuji grabs his face, his leather gloved fingers sliding along the sides of his jaw, reaching to the back of his head, and he’s moving forward. Akira’s face is moving forward and before he has time to register what’s going on, Ryuji rests his forehead against his and takes a deep breath.

Time stops. The storm calms. The coffee doesn’t brew. _Don’t kiss him_ , the voice says. It feels like stepping into an ice bath.

Ryuji takes a gulp of air. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His grip on Akira’s head gets a little tighter. “I uh, I got carried away.”

Akira nods, as much as he can with his head pressed against Ryuji’s, and Ryuji chuckles lightly.

“I was expectin’ you to say you did too.”

“I did too,” Akira says quickly. The rage in his face trickles down his body. He feels like mint on the inside. Ryuji sucks in another breath—can’t get him to stop talking even when you wanted him to.

“I just…”

_Love me?_

“...don’t want to see you get hurt. And I hate it when I’m not there to help protect you. Feel useless on the sidelines. I’ve been fightin’ with you the longest—sometimes that makes me think I know better n’ they do.”

Akira looks at Ryuji, their faces so close together, and offers a small smile. Ryuji smells like that t-shirt, even in the metaverse.Cut grass and clean soap. “I was trying to protect you too. Don’t want to see you get hurt either.”

Ryuji takes another gulp of air and swallows dryly. “Dumb fight, then, I guess.”

Akira slides a hand up Ryuji’s chest, over his neck, and to the back of his head. He holds him there, too, just as tightly. “I guess,” he agrees.

When they pull away, his lips brush over Ryuji’s forehead. Light enough to be an accident, tender enough to be on purpose.

_One night he wakes_

The sleepovers happen more frequently after their fight. The team breathes a sigh of relief when things appear to go back to normal, but for Akira and Ryuji, it doesn’t go back. It simply moves forward, different now, yet still the same. Is it born from their desire to protect each other? Is it because they can’t get enough of each other? Does this new element, the tenderness, make them hungrier, more desperate, yearning? Can they trust each other to act in their best—read: safest—interest, can they stay alive if only for the other? Have they even begun to explore what stirs deep? They don’t have answers, but the benefit is that neither is asking any. Akira tries a new brew on Ryuji. Ryuji lets Akira scoot a little closer. It’s different now, yet still the same.

“Akira.”

“ _Akira.”_

The voice travels softly through a fitful dream, floating through a blank and empty sky. He stirs slowly and then suddenly, consciousness tugging him up and up until his eyes open to a blurred vision, something above him, something blond. He squints, blinks a few times, then rubs at his eyes with his fist. His surroundings drip back into awareness: a bed, a pillow, a blanket, a body? Then, yes, that’s right: Ryuji’s bed, Ryuji’s pillow, Ryuji’s blanket, Ryuji’s body. _Ryuji’s body?_ Akira turns his head where bright green numbers shine. Too bright. He winces.

“Four fifteen?” He mumbles, then turns back. Yes, Ryuji’s body, hovering over him. Ryuji sleeps like a rock—what’s going on? Akira imagines Ryuji’s expression is similar to his own: kind of out of it, like only their toes are dipped in real life, eyes sleepy, everything warm.

“Akira,” Ryuji urges.

_Strange look on his face_

“Yeah?” Akira whispers. There’s a firmness in Ryuji’s voice Akira wasn’t expecting at this time of night, one that doesn’t really match his face. He sounds pressed for time—or, no, not pressed for time. Pressed for something. Not frantic, not panicked, but...pressed.

It takes him too long to answer. Akira props himself up on his elbows, more awake now, sliding into the pool of awareness waist-deep now. Ryuji still looks half-asleep, but he leans back as Akira leans forward. Responsive, at least, so not sleep-talking. Akira frowns.

“Yeah?” Akira repeats, voice just above a whisper now, “You okay?”

Ryuji pulls a face like frustration. His eyes look suddenly bright.

 

_Pauses, then says  
"_ _You’re my best friend.”_

This was not news.

Akira was, in fact, Ryuji’s best friend.

They’d said as much before, in passing, in comments, in half-hearted acknowledgement.

Of course Akira was Ryuji’s best friend.

Of course Ryuji was his.

Of course.

And yet...

_And you knew what it was_

It is a Sunday night and it’s raining. It’s always raining, here in Tokyo, at least that’s what it feels like. It is a Sunday night and it’s raining and there are no alarms; there are no rims running over; there are no voices; there are no warnings. There is only a boy, and another boy, staring across inches of space with an infinite amount of words trapped in a single statement.

Ryuji’s mouth is set in a hard line. Akira’s lips are quirking up in a smile.

He untangles his hand from the blankets below and reaches for him. He brings his face down, presses his forehead against his—this has become a thing, now, their way to communicate whatever it was they weren’t saying. Their way to say “stay safe,” their way to say “I’m thinking about you,” their way to say...everything. But here, now, _finally_ , Ryuji had busted it wide open, so Akira continues to level his face with Ryuji’s until they’re nearly flush.

“I know,” he whispers, smiling, lips sticking to Ryuji’s as he speaks. Ryuji smiles back.

_He is  
_ _In love_

Time didn’t know how to move when it came to Akira and Ryuji. It was all over the place: stopping, starting, rushing, slowing. It overflowed their cup, spilling over the sides, dribbling down their chins. It shrunk away, back into dark alleys, their fingers stretching and swiping at it yet always out of reach. It filled all the empty spaces and somehow there still wasn’t enough of it.

_You can hear it in the silence_

Now, of course, it had always been there. From the first moment, from the second Akira stepped into the light on that Monday morning, it was there. It was the undercurrent to everything, the energy that flowed between them effortless and intentional. It was present in the things they didn’t say, perhaps couldn’t say, for so long. It was the sun they counted on, the warmth they relied upon, the comfort they’d come to crave. 

It makes Akira laugh: how could you fall in love and not have any idea?

_You can feel it on the way home_

Ryuji wouldn’t change it though, wouldn’t change a single thing about it. These days it was suffocating in the best ways: the weekly sleepovers, Akira’s body clinging to his in the night, Ryuji draping over Akira during the day. The hand he holds as Akira drives in Mementos, the way their friends mock and also support them, the forehead kiss he gets after a battle. It was everywhere. It was everything.

_You can see it with the lights out_

There is new vulnerability found in the darkness, at what seemed to be their shining hour of midnight, trepidation trapped in fingertips. Hushed breaths, muffled sounds, skin sliding against skin. Ryuji calls it discovery. Akira calls it, period, his fingers tangling in Ryuji’s hair and pulling. Words fall from their lips, cool on their searing skin. Ryuji never remembers what he says, but Akira makes note of every word.

_You’re in love_

It probably took so long to notice because of how deeply it rooted—at least, that’s what Ryuji hypothesizes. It was love before it was anything else. Before they were friends he loved him. Before they had met, he loved him. Standing across the sidewalk, utter strangers, staring through the raindrops, he loved him. It’s why everything made so much sense the moment he arrived. _Finally,_ the world whispered.

_True love_

It is a Monday. It is a Monday and it’s raining. It is a Monday and it’s raining and Ryuji pulls Akira into a kiss just because he can.

**Author's Note:**

> still at goodestboyryuji :) still too lazy to make that a hyperlink :) still dedicated to my fics that you probably thought I gave up on :) i'm dying inside :)


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